


The Steam's in the Boiler, The Coal's in the Fire

by tastethewaste



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastethewaste/pseuds/tastethewaste
Summary: David is returning from the war, but he's not the same. And he's not sure he ever will be again.An exploration of David's PTSD and how it affects his life with Vicky and his kids.





	1. Chapter 1

The traffic bustled back and forth as they made their way through the double doors and into the main vestibule of the airport. David Budd crouched down and scooped up his son in his arms and took his daughter’s hand. He led them over to a small bench and sat with them.

“Daddy loves you, big man,” he whispered, and kissed one of Charlie’s chubby cheeks. He was so small, his boy. David reveled in the comfort of having the weight of his child in his arms, knowing that he would have only this memory as a replacement for the near future. 

“Daddy,” Charlie said quietly, and David had to stop himself from losing it. He set his boy down next to him and turned, giving his daughter the strongest smile he could.

“Come here, angel, give Daddy a cuddle,” he said, and Ella scrambled into his arms. He hugged her tightly, rocking back and forth gently.

“When are you coming home, Daddy?” Ella asked, and David felt his heart seize up. They were both so small, that was the problem. They were too young to understand what was going on. This was his first deployment since the children had been born, and he'd never had to do this before.

“I don’t rightly know that just yet, sweetheart, but I promise that just as soon as I’m able to, I’ll be on a plane home to you,” he said softly, and chucked her under the chin. “Can you give me a smile? That’s a good girl,” he said, taking Ella’s smile and tucking it in his back pocket for later. He’d need that memory, too. 

He passed the children over to his mother, who was crying freely. He kissed her cheek and whispered that he loved her. He then made his way with Vicky over to the kiosk to check in, and then stepped over to the side, near the security line. This was as far as Vicky, his mother and the children could go. After this, that was it. He held his wife in his arms.

“Love, don’t cry. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be alright,” David said as he kissed Vicky goodbye in the crowded airport. They were surrounded by loads of other couples and families doing the same thing; it made Dave’s stomach hurt, watching it. "We've done this before, Vic. I've been gone before."

“Yeah, but we have _kids_ now. What if it’s not alright? You always say that Dave, and what if you’re wrong this time?” Vic murmured, her words muffled as she pressed her face into his chest. “What will we do without you?” 

“Please don’t talk like that, Vic, I can’t hear it, not today,” he said quietly, and she nodded, wiping away the stray tears that were snaking down her face. “It’s going to be alright because it has to be, right?” 

Vicky sighed and nodded furiously, pasting a smile on her face that looked more like a grimace. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t get upset. She realized now how crazy of a promise that was.

“We’ll miss you, that’s all,” Vicky said quietly, and David nodded. 

“Oh, Vic, I can’t even...fuck, I can’t even comprehend how much I’ll miss you guys.” David’s lip trembled, and then he was crying, leaving things exactly the way he hadn’t wanted to leave them, leaving his wife holding not just their children and the house and all of the responsibilities of their life, but also leaving her holding his own baggage and worries. He took a long, shuddery breath and squeezed her as tight as he could. 

“I’ve got to go,” he said softly, and she nodded. 

“I know you do.” 

Neither of them moved.

Five minutes later, he really did have to go, and David did the hardest thing he’d done yet by pulling away from his wife. 

“Love you, Vic,” he said softly, and he picked up his bag from the ground and wound his way through security. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They survived on sporadic phone calls, on letters and the occasional video chat. Vicky drank in the small contact she had with her husband, storing his voice in her brain to recall when she needed it, wishing she could smell him and run her hands over him, as well. She took what she could get, though, and sometimes she wished she could just keep it all to herself. 

As much as she needed and wanted to hear from Dave, it almost made things worse with the kids. They didn’t understand, no matter how many times she explained, and whenever he called or wrote it sent them off in waves of grief as though they’d forgotten he existed until then. It was worse for Ella, who was older. 

“I want _Daddy!_ ” Ella yelled one night after Dave had called to say he loved them. Her daughter thrashed back and forth in her bed, her cries of anguish echoing, and it took everything in Vicky not to scream. 

“I know, darling, I know you want Daddy, but he’s at work and he can’t come home right now,” Vic tried to plead, but Ella was having none of it. She continued to cry, and eventually Vic could do nothing but throw her hands up and leave. 

She sank to the floor outside of her children’s room and buried her face in her hands. 

This war, this deployment was ruining her, as a mother and wife. It was ruining her children, who missed their father and didn’t know where he’d gone off to. 

As she sobbed steadily from her spot on the floor, Vic could only think enough to hope that it wasn’t also ruining David. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello?” The sun filtered in through the cloudy glass of the kitchen window, and Vicky sipped at her morning tea as she answered the phone. Ella and Charlie were in the living room, playing, and she was taking a few moments to herself when the phone had rung. 

“Vic?” 

“ _Dave?_ ” Vicky said urgently as she sat up straighter. She hadn’t bothered looking at the caller ID before answering, and she hadn’t heard from her husband in weeks. “Dave, oh my God.” 

“‘Lo, Vic, how are you?” Her husband’s voice was deep and it shot a pain straight through her. 

“Oh, I’m fine, we’re fine, kids are great. Missing you, always. How are _you?_ ” she asked urgently. She’d been unable to bring herself to tell Dave how miserable they’d all been, on and off, since he’d left. He didn’t need it. 

“I, uh. Well…” he trailed off, and a different pain shot through her then. “Don’t get upset.” 

“What’s going on, David?” 

He sighed. “I’ve been hurt. There was an attack. A few of my mates...fuck,” he said softly, and tears sprang into Vic’s eyes. “Please don’t get upset, love, I’m alright. I’m not...I didn’t...some of mates didn’t fare as well. Not by a long shot.” 

“You got hurt? You’re _hurt?_ What happened, what’s going on, are you going to be okay?” These were the words Vicky had never wanted to hear while he was gone: the fact that he’d been hurt, or worse. She was panic-stricken.

“Calm down, love. I’ve told you, it’s not as bad as others. Practically nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “What happened?” 

“Doesn’t matter, my back’s been messed up pretty good but I’m going to make it. But, Vic, the good news...I’m coming home.” 

On the flip side of what she’d just heard, these were the words she _had_ been waiting to hear for over a year, and she almost dropped the phone. “You’re coming home? Oh thank God, Dave, seriously, you have no idea how amazing that is.”

“Ay, it is. Soon as I’m well enough to travel they’re sending us out.” 

Vicky was now sobbing fully, gut-wrenching sobs that tore from her throat and echoed back through the phone to her husband. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get upset, it’s just...it’s been tough here, and I know it’s tougher for you, but we need you and I’m sorry you’re hurt but you’re coming _home_ , Dave. That’s what matters.” 

He paused for a moment, and then said “Yes, love, that’s what matters. I can’t wait to get home to you lot.” 

They said their goodbyes, David having to talk to the doctor who’d just come in, and Vicky concentrated on washing the tears from her face so her children wouldn’t be upset. 

Home. He’d be home soon. Things could get back to normal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

David stood outside of his own house, taking deep breaths and trying to work up the courage to go inside. The people he loved and missed most while he was over there in hell were waiting for him beyond the door, but he could not make himself go in. 

He wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the same at all.


	2. Chapter 2

David stood outside of his house, hands worrying at the hem on his jacket, staring into the windows at his family. His eyes filled with tears at the sight of them, the three of them, gathered together in the living room and waiting for him. 

He’d video chatted with his family as often as possible, but it hadn’t prepared him for the shock of seeing how much his children had changed in the time that he’d been gone. _How could that possibly be Charlie?_ he wondered, marveling at the sight of his small son pushing a toy train across the rug. _He’s gotten so big._ Charlie’d lost some of his essential babyness while he’d been away, something in the eyes and the chubbiness of his cheeks. His son-who was now three years old, who could believe it-was now a child, not a baby, and it hit David roughly in the face, a reminder of all he’d missed while he was gone. 

And Ella. She was so _tall,_ he mused with a small smile as he watched his sweet girl dance across the floor in lazy pirouettes around her mother. She’d turned five while he was gone, started primary school, and it made his heart ache to see the effects of a year go by instantaneously. She was brilliant, this daughter of his. 

And Vic. Oh, Vic. 

He watched as his wife played with their children, an effortless, easy smile on her face, and he longed to hold her. He could spot tiny new wrinkles on her face, worry lines etched into the canvas of her skin by sleepless nights and crying kids. He’d left her holding the ball here at home, and it felt like a punch in the gut. His beautiful wife, her hair longer and her smile sadder, an air of devastation mixed in even though he knew she had to be happy today. Today, he was coming home. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her, her jaw, her cheek, her forehead, her lips.

So what was he doing here, outside staring in, when he could be in there with them? What held him back? 

He looked down at his hands, watched them shake. They did that all the time now, a constant tremor that made his coffee spill over the sides of the cup. He could still feel the ache of his back, the flesh torn apart by the bomb. It’d be a while before everything was healed 100%, and the doctors in hospital had told him the scarring would be significant. How could he return to his family broken, not the man he had been before, when he was supposed to be the ones to take care of them? It used to be that David was only sure of one thing in his life, and that was his ability to take care of his family. Now, standing on this cold front porch and watching them, he could no longer say that he could do it with certainty. 

Suddenly, Vic’s eyes slid away from the children and met his through the front window. Her face lit up when she saw him and she leapt from her seat, throwing the door open. 

“ _Dave!_ ” she cried, launching herself into her husband’s arms and weeping. He felt himself begin to cry, too, burying his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her. She smelled like peaches and laundry detergent and just the faintest undercurrent of sweat and sidewalk chalk, the remnants of an afternoon outside with their children. It was all intoxicating to him, and he drank it in dizzyingly, clinging to her tightly as if he was at risk of falling off the face of the planet without her. 

Suddenly her hands grazed his lower back, ghosting unknowingly over his wounds, still raw and covered with bandages, and his body spasmed in pain. He wrenched himself away from her and she gasped. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, holding his hands up. 

“No, Dave, God, _I’m_ sorry! I...I didn’t think…” Vic said, trailing off at the end of her sentence and wiping some tears from her cheeks. He shook his head lightly. 

“Please don’t be sorry, it’s just...still healing,” he said quietly, and she nodded. 

Suddenly, a dual chorus of “ _Daddy!_ ” came from behind his wife, and his children were running at him. 

“Gently, loves, gently,” Vicky said urgently as the kids launched themselves at him, and David sank to his knee and caught them up in his arms. He kissed them everywhere, and he was sobbing again, and this was what he’d been missing. His heart ached as he held them, unable to believe that he’d survived without them for that long, long year. 

And then suddenly, their reunion was over. They were bustling inside, Ella chattering about a drawing she’d made that day in school, Charlie begging David to play with his trains, Vicky telling the kids to relax and go wash up for supper. 

“I made your favorite,” she said, slipping her fingers in between his and squeezing his hand reassuringly. 

“Spaghetti,” he said with a grin on his face, and she nodded. 

They spent the evening together, eating supper, and David marveled at the ease of which he’d seemed to slip back in. The children had missed him, but he was home, and they accepted it as fact. He caught Vic studying him as he ate, and when he caught her eye she just smiled broadly at him. He gave her the bravest smile he could back. 

After supper, they watched a movie, let the dishes soak until the morning, snuggled on the couch together. Ella snuggled right up next to him, her head laying on his side, and Charlie burrowed into Vicky, his thumb plugged in his mouth, always a mama’s boy. Both children drifted off to sleep halfway through the movie, and David stroked his daughter’s hair gently. 

“Are you happy?” Vic asked abruptly, and he looked over at her sharply. 

“‘Course. Never been happier,” he said, and in that moment, he meant it. In that moment, he _was_ happy, of course he was. How could he be unhappy when he was home, cuddled on the couch with his wife and kids? Sure, his back still hurt, and sure, he knew deep down that there were some demons that he was going to have to come to terms with, but he was _home_ , and wasn’t that all that mattered? 

An hour later, the kids were in bed and David and Vicky were in their room, undressing. They’d been like awkward teenagers, fumbling with buttons and roughly sliding out of jeans. Tongues tied together, teeth caught on lower lips, hands pushed at clothing. Vic’s hands ran over Dave’s sides, her fingers finding his ribs and playing down them like a piano. 

He’d lost weight, she realized suddenly, and it shocked her for some reason. She could count his ribs if she really tried, and she had hopes that being home would help put some weight back on him, but it alarmed her. She pulled away from him slightly, and looked into his eyes. She noticed the bags underneath them, sunken in and dark gray, accentuated by his blue eyes. 

He looked deep into her eyes and pulled away, sliding his white t-shirt off slowly. He turned around and showed his back to her, the wounds all bandaged and hidden from view. She reached out and slowly undid one of them, revealing the badly burned skin underneath. It had healed significantly from the time it happened, but it was still a shock, and she felt her stomach twist. 

“Christ, Dave,” she whispered, and he closed his eyes. He felt her reapply the bandage and he turned back to face her. “What...please, tell me what happened. Please.” She hadn’t been able to get it out of him over the phone, had hoped that he’d confide in her when he returned home. 

Insead, he shook his head vehemently. “No.” 

“I’m your wife, Dave.” 

“I know, that’s why. We don’t need to relive this shit. We need to move _forward_.” 

Vicky regarded him with sympathy in her eyes, and it ignited a small fire in his belly, bubbling and smoking. 

“You can tell me about what happened over there. I promise you can,” she said quietly. 

“Ay, yes. I know that. But Vic, that’s...I don’t want to talk, not right now. I just want to be home and happy right now,” David said, tucking a small strand of hair behind her ear. 

Vicky’s eyes drank in her husband’s face, regarding it fully for a moment before answering. He couldn’t keep everything bottled up inside forever. It would eat him alive, she knew it. Perhaps it already was. 

But.

But he’d just returned home, and they’d had a lovely evening as a family. He looked so tired, and Lord knew she was exhausted, and she couldn’t rightfully say that pushing it right now was the best thing to do. So she nodded, and the relieved smile that crossed his face tugged at her heartstrings. 

“Will you help me change the bandage?” he asked quietly, and she nodded. 

“Of course.” 

She cleaned her husband’s wound, reapplied the bandages, kissed him deeply. That was enough for tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

David stared at his back the best he could in the mirror. The wounds had healed, as he’d known they would, over the last couple of months. He was left with puckered scars, crawling down his back like cracked glass, and he touched it ever so gently. It was still a little sensitive, probably always would be, and he was about to put his shirt on when Vicky banged into the bathroom, a laundry basket in her arms. 

David spun away from her, his face flushing pink at being caught in this vulnerable situation. He’d been home for two months and he had done his best to stop her from seeing what the war had done to him, physically. “Eh, Vic, how about knocking first? Christ,” he muttered under his breath. He avoided her eyes, fumbling on the bathroom counter for his toothbrush, busying himself with brushing his teeth. She decided to ignore the way he snapped at her, the way she had every time since he’d come home, and just busied herself collected the towels from the floor at his feet. Her eyes lit on his back. 

“Those look good, Dave. Much better,” she said softly, touching his arm gently and giving him a strong smile. He nodded hesitantly, his toothbrush still hooked in his mouth, then bent forward to spit into the sink. “How are you doing?” 

David gripped the porcelain sink, focusing on breathing, on not blowing up. It wasn’t Vic’s fault, he knew that anyone would worry in her position, and she was just doing it because she loved him. 

“I’m alright, Vic, promise,” he finally said, rinsing his mouth out with the glass on the edge of the sink. “Kids have to go to school and you’ve got work, right?” 

Vicky tried to quash the anger that rose from her belly, but it was hard, and getting harder every day. “Yeah. I’ll just...I’ll just throw this load in and do that. Have a good day.” She took her hand off of his arm and pushed her way out of the bathroom, away from her husband, back towards her children. 

David watched her walk away and knew that he was just pushing her away. He took one last look at his back in the mirror before pulling on his t-shirt. Yes, the wounds on his back had healed, as he’d known they would. The wounds elsewhere, though, the ones in his mind, were still fresh, weeping, not scabbed over in the least. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When David emerged from the bathroom, dressed and freshly showered, she had breakfast waiting for the four of them on the table. Meal times were the best part of her day, because she could pretend that they were any other normal family in London, enjoying a meal together like everyone else did. In the morning she pretended that her husband was eating a quick breakfast before hopping on the train to go to his office job in the city, where he’d put in a full eight hours of work before coming home. She pretended that he was engaged with their children, maybe even dropping them off at school and daycare on occasion, playing with them in the evenings and helping their daughter with her homework. 

At dinner she pretended that they were sharing a meal and chatting about their days, her husband making conversation about mergers and acquisitions, asking her about her day and nodding sympathetically while she complained about a difficult patient. She pretended that after dinner they would wash the dishes together while the children played in the living room, their hips brushing each other, their hands lingering when pashing dishes back and forth. She daydreamed that they would put their kids to bed, read them stories, kiss them on the forehead. Then she’d take her husband to their bedroom and he’d take her in his arms, make love to her, let her _touch_ him. He would look at her. 

Instead, what Vicky got was not what she silently daydreamed about while she pushed her eggs around her plate. It also wasn’t what she had envisioned during the long months of David’s deployment. She hadn’t been entirely ignorant; she had prepared herself as best she could for the likelihood of David struggling when he returned home. He’d seen terrible things over there, been injured, watched his friends die. He was bound to have some setbacks, and she’d been determined to be supportive of whatever was going to happen. 

What she hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the broken man that had returned. The David that had returned was distant, and cold. He wouldn’t look at her or touch her, and wouldn’t allow her to touch him, either. He tried his hardest with Charlie and Ella, but she could tell that he was putting on a brave face for them and that his heart wasn’t really in it. His heart wasn’t in _anything_ anymore, and it was beyond difficult to watch.

At night, he hardly slept. He thought she didn’t know, but she was a light sleeper because of the kids, and most nights around midnight he would roll out of their bed and go downstairs. She didn’t know what he did, but she heard no noise coming from down there, and she often drifted off to sleep soon after. She’d stopped going after him after the first time she’d done it. 

The first time she’d felt him slide out of their bed, a week after he’d come home, she had waited a moment, thinking he was just going to the bathroom. When he hadn’t returned after almost twenty minutes, she shrugged on her robe and went downstairs, pausing at the bottom and looking into the living room. David was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands, just sitting there. He wasn’t moving or making a sound. 

“Dave?” She’d whispered, and he’d looked up suddenly, and his face was so… _drawn_ , so pale, so haunted, that for a moment she’d actually been frightened. She barely recognized him. “Are you alright?”

And then he was back, he was at least recognizable, as he offered her a small smile. “Yeah, Vic, just having trouble sleeping. I’ll be up soon, don’t worry, love.” 

“I could make you some tea,” she’d offered, stepping forward, but stopping when she saw his body tense up, ever so slightly. 

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m okay. Go back to bed.” 

“I don’t want to leave you alone, let me help--”

“ _Vic_ , please, just go to bed, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, it’s fine, just go,” Dave said, and he had been manic, absolutely manic, and she had suddenly been scared again. She had been scared enough to nod at him vigorously and take the stairs back up as fast as she could, leaving him alone downstairs and her curled up in their bed alone. 

He hadn’t come back up for hours. 

So she’d stopped following him downstairs while he couldn’t sleep in the evenings, but that wasn’t even the whole of it. He didn’t sleep all night, and then during the day he sat in their house, doing God knows what, and when she came home there were always beer bottles lined up in a row on the counter. His eyes were always bloodshot and he looked haggard, and as far as she could tell, he hadn’t done anything besides drink all day. 

She did all the cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children. Dave’s awkwardness with them was heartbreaking, and he could tell Charlie and Ella felt it, too. He snapped at her almost constantly, if she ever asked him any questions about how he was feeling, or what he’d done that day, or if he thought maybe he could handle doing _something_ for the family? She’d been biting her tongue for two months, and every day it got harder and harder. 

She wanted desperately to try to get him to go and get some help, but she could only imagine what his reaction would be to that. He’d snapped at her the other day for brushing up against him on accident in the hallway, so she couldn’t fathom what his reaction would be to her suggestion of seeing a doctor or a counselor. What she wanted to do was scream at him that it wasn’t her _fault_ that he’d seen such terrible things, it wasn’t the kids’ fault that he’d been gone for an entire year and missed so much. She also knew it wasn’t _David’s_ fault for any of it either, but how long could it go on? 

How long could she go on?


	4. Chapter 4

Vicky Budd had always prided herself on being a sensible, pragmatic woman. 

She wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, she was known to be level-headed in the most stressful of situations, and she took a no-nonsense policy on the reality of things in life. These things were not always beautiful attributes, but they were part of what made her a successful nurse, and a good mother and wife. 

She knew these things about herself to be true, and that was why, a year after her husband had returned home from the war, she was having a hard time looking herself in the mirror. Because she knew, deep down in the pit of her stomach, that she had taken a backseat in her marriage and in her life to avoid her husband. She had swept all of her insecurities and worries about him-all of the things she _knew_ to be wrong-under the rug. It was unlike her, and their home had been like...well, like a war zone, for a year because of it.

Sometimes she wondered why she did it. She wondered why this was the one thing she couldn’t confront head on. Something would happen, David would blow up at her for dropping a dish or he’d be drunk, _again_ , when she came home from work or she’d ask him to please pick the children up and he’d beg off of it, and she’d think to herself, _right. That’s it. I’ve had enough, this is the end of it, I’m going to confront him._

But then he’d disappear, down into the basement alone, or he’d apologize immediately and she’d notice how his hands shook, and all of her resolve would disappear. She’d see him in all of his vulnerability, and the words that sat on the tip of her tongue, as heavy and loaded as a gun, ready to fire, would dissolve. 

How many times had it happened that way? He would snap and she would prepare to finally, _finally_ snap back, to tell him that he needed to get help and a job and that she just couldn’t _do it_ anymore, and then, he would look at her, and she would see the sadness in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, love. So sorry,” he’d say, and he’d be so quiet and sad, and she’d think that maybe he would realize it on his own. Despite her daily hesitations and frustrations, a small part of Vicky really thought that David, _things_ with David, would improve on their own in time. She spent most of her time wondering when that might be, as he sat around the house like a ghost, a shell of his former self. She tried so hard to be patient, to let him heal on his own terms, to support him, but it was hard. 

It was harder than anything she’d ever done, watching him pushing food around on his plate but eating little of it, seeing the bags underneath his eyes because he _never fucking slept_ , hearing the clink of the bottle opener against the side of another bottle of beer. As they neared the end of that first year, it finally occurred to her that she was watching her husband waste away, and it was partially her fault. Some days, it felt _entirely_ like her fault. And she was starting to slowly realize that things really _wouldn’t_ get better on their own, and David seemed to have no intention of taking steps on his own.

Still, she was quiet. But not for long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

David’s hands shook as he pushed a pile of mashed potatoes around on his plate. Eating almost anything made him nauseous now, and while he tried his best to eat _something_ at meal times and participate in the conversation, he usually just sat there, occasionally nodding and tossing out half-baked smiles. He didn’t follow along much, truth be told, so when his son spoke to him it cut through his internal brooding like a knife.

“Will you cut my chicken, Daddy?” Charlie asked, and David looked at his son with surprise. It pained him to think of it, but his children didn’t ordinarily come to him on their own. In the time that he’d been back, they’d started looking at him as more of a silent figurehead in their home, someone to tiptoe around and avoid if they could help it. David knew it, of course he knew it, and it was the thing that hurt the most. It hurt more than the deterioration of his marriage, more than the complete loss of his identity, more than the way his life had become so isolated. 

He wished every day that he could do something about him, but something inside of him stood in his way. 

He smiled down at Charlie, now four and so big, so smart and handsome, and reached over with his knife and fork. He cut his son’s chicken patiently into even-sized bites, and his heart caved in when Charlie smiled back at him. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” his son said softly before digging in. David felt like crying, but for the first time in a while, it wasn’t because he was upset about something. He’d made a connection, however small, however tenuous, with his son, and it felt good. 

Then he looked up, and saw Vic studying him over the rim of her wine glass. He could tell she’d been watching while he interacted with Charlie, and her face was a mixed bag of emotions that he couldn’t quite place. He saw concern, and anxiety, and he knew that his wife was _worried_ about him, of course he _knew_ that, but her face confirmed that she was maybe just a little bit afraid of him, too. She was scared of him, at least on some level, and scared of him with the kids. His heart sank, and he pushed his plate away from him sullenly. 

“You should eat something, love,” Vic said quietly, and he clenched his fists underneath the table to stop himself from snapping at her. 

“Not hungry,” he said quietly, unclenching his fists and rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers. 

“Dave, I…” 

“Not _hungry_ , Vic. I’m not one of the kids, yeah?” he spat at her, contempt dripping from his words.

“ _Fine,_ ” Vicky said tightly, forcing a smile onto her face and continuing to eat from her own plate. David got up, dumped his dinner down the disposal, rinsed his plate and loaded it into the dishwasher. Then, not giving Vicky so much as a backwards glance, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and threw himself on the sofa in the living room. 

He didn’t realize that he’d started to doze off until he felt a small hand on his arm. “Daddy?” His eyes flew open, and he fought the urge to get sick everywhere when he saw fear flood the light in his daughter’s eyes, ever-so-briefly, from the snap way that he’d looked at her. 

“Yes, darlin’?” he said, trying to smile, trying to sound chipper, trying to sound like the father who’d left her behind two years ago. 

“Will you help me with my homework?” Ella asked innocently, and David had to stifle the urge to get sick again. He wanted to, he wanted more than anything in the world, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting at the table next to his child, helping her with her first-grade maths worksheets, patiently explaining to her how to do something, correcting her gently when she got something wrong. He couldn’t picture himself being able to do it, and it scared him, and he knew that Vic would be hovering, just outside the room or even _in_ the room, and he couldn’t stomach that either. The idea of helping Ella was too normal, would take too much out of him. 

He swallowed hard. “Maybe tomorrow night, love. Daddy’s a bit tired tonight. Ask Mummy, okay?” He looked away quickly, before he could see his daughter’s face fall, before he could see himself disappoint her again. 

“Okay,” she said quietly, and he watched as Ella grabbed her knapsack and headed upstairs to her room. 

A moment later, Vicky came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She leaned against the doorframe and looked at David, and he raised his eyebrows at her, a way of asking what was on her mind. 

“Your daughter asked you for help with her homework. You should help her,” Vic said quietly. 

“I can’t, but maybe tomorrow,” David said, taking a long drink of his beer. Vic found herself scoffing, something she hadn’t intended on doing. 

“That’s what you always say, and then it never comes. She’s six, Dave, y’know? She’s six bloody years old and she wants her father. You should help her with her homework,” Vic said, an icy frost taking over her voice. 

“I know how old my daughter is, thank you very much,” David said quietly. 

Vic nodded, bit her lip, then plunged forward. “We need to talk, Dave.” 

“About what?” he asked tentatively, his voice on edge along with the rest of him. He could feel the anxiety in every bone in his body, every muscle tensed up, every fiber at attention. 

“I’ve been tiptoeing around this for a long time now, but I can’t anymore. I’ve been tiptoeing around _you_ for a long time, actually,” Vic said, sinking down on the sofa next to him. “I think it’s time to admit that things aren’t getting any better on their own, and...I think we need to get you some help.”

“I don’t need any help, Vic. I’m fine,” David said evenly, his shaking, sweaty hands and flushed face betraying him. 

“Love, you don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you barely speak to any of us unless you’re yelling at me. You can hardly look at our children. I _know_ it’s hard, I know, but we can get through this if you just--” 

“Goddammit, _no_ , Vicky!” David yelled, jumping up from the couch beside her. “I don’t need help! And don’t say you know because you don’t!” 

Vicky stood, too, and held her hands up. She looked like she was surrendering, and the irony wasn’t lost on David. “Okay, you’re right. I don’t know. I don’t know what you went through and I never will. Here’s what I _do_ know. I know that you are not well and you’re drinking too much and you’re no longer a productive member of our family. Those things should be enough for you to admit that you need some help.” 

David felt tears welling up in the back of his eyes and he forced them away, fearing that showing any sign of weakness would just be fuel for Vicky’s fire. “Low blows, Vic,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice.

“I’m not trying to fight...fight dirty or anything, I’m just explaining to you...David, it’s unbelievably hard to see you this way. I’ve waited long enough, it’s been over a year. I thought this would resolve itself but it’s not, it’s not getting any better. I miss you, the you that I know is in there somewhere, and the kids do, too. Please,” Vicky said, her voice trembling. 

“You’re only saying this because you’re mad that I’m not doin’ my fair share of things around here, and yeah, I could be more helpful, I know, but this has just been _hard_ , okay? So I’m sorry I haven’t been doing enough of the fucking _laundry_.” His words were like acid, bitter and harsh and they stung when they hit her. 

“You aren’t yourself, David,” Vicky said softly, though her voice still had an edge to it. “You aren’t yourself and that’s why I’m upset. Not because of the laundry or the dishes or any of the rest of it. I don’t want you to get help so that you’ll clean the house. Not even so that you’ll stop talking to me like _this,_ like I’m an animal or a piece of shit stuck to your shoe. I want you to get help so you can be a proper father to our kids and because I fucking _love_ you.” 

Vicky ran her hands over her face and then turned, going upstairs. She had to find her daughter and do her maths with her. She had to tuck her son into bed. She had to do absolutely everything but be in that room anymore. 

David watched her go, his whole body still trembling, his chest rising and falling with the shortness of his breath. If he stayed in this house for one more second he felt like he’d explode. Maybe he would explode, blood and brains splattered on the walls, a visual representation of what he’d been feeling since he got back. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing.


End file.
